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CHAPTER 1 Palermo, Sicily 1905
When I entered the studio that morning, there was no model posed on the marble pedestal. No vase overflowing with flowers; no bowl of fruit. Tomorrow, the Academy closed for the summer so that our teacher, Monsieur Laurent, could join the other painters in the south of France. The other students worked busily at their easels, the only sounds the whisper of brushstrokes on canvas and the occasional scraping of the stools against the wood floor. The air was dense with turpentine and sweat. I wound my way through the crowded room to my easel, where my latest work stood drying.
Binvinutu. My family’s manor house, nestled amidst the fields high in the Trapani Mountains of western Sicily. I’d finished late last night and left the studio unsure about the changes I’d made. In the light of day, though, I could see the painting was good.
All year, I’d been preparing for admission to the Palermo Academy of Fine Arts. My portfolio was stuffed with copies of the Old Masters. Botticelli and da Vinci. Michelangelo and Raphael. Proof that I was a competent artist, prepared to enter the two-year course of study. But this painting—Binvinutu—showed I was more than just capable. Mamma would say I was conceited. I didn’t care. Monsieur said I had talent. I could be the first woman admitted to the Academy.
I watched as my teacher made his way around the other students’ stools and easels, quietly pointing out where a perspective could be sharpened, or a hue deepened. By the time he reached me, my heart was pounding. Dark spots flashed in front of my eyes. I tried to take a few deep breaths. There was a tightness there I hadn’t felt before. Nerves. Nonna always said I let my emotions get the better of me.
Monsieur pointed to the three figures I’d painted last night. “You’ve added these.”
I nodded. Rosalia, Caterina, and I, garbed in purple and yellow, magenta and green, garish colors Mamma never would have permitted. In the painting, we moved easily through a field of flowers, something that would have been impossible with the headscarves and head-to-toe mantles we were actually forced to wear outside the house. On my canvas, though, we were young women, our lives just beginning. Not crones, hidden from the world.
Monsieur studied the composition for a long time. So long, in fact, that I began to worry that I’d taken things too far. “Your sisters?” he asked, finally.
I pointed to the figure in the middle. “Rosalia.” Then the smaller one at the end. “Caterina.”
Monsieur narrowed his eyes. “You decided on the composition weeks ago. I’m wondering: why add these now?”
My stomach dropped. Next, Monsieur would tell me to paint over the figures with a pergola or a copse of trees. “It wasn’t finished,” I mumbled.
“And it’s complete, now?” Not trusting my voice, I nodded. “How do you know this, Mademoiselle?”
I hesitated before saying the only thing I could think of: It felt right.
Monsieur smiled broadly. “Yes, Mademoiselle. You painted with your heart, not your brain. This is what an artist does.”
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